Black Ops Omnibus

by Matt Lynn

  He grabbed the rucksack. The straps broke free. He pulled it towards him, and in the same moment the buckle broke. Jack glanced inside, taking a sharp intake of breath as he did so. Inside, there was a disseminator. And a sniper pistol: a compact, but deadly firearm, capable of delivering a single shot with precision accuracy at a distance of up to five hundred yards. Next to both was an access-all-areas pass to the Olympic Stadium.

  Shit, said Jack to himself.

  This is as bad as we thought. Perhaps even worse.

  “Give that back, you fucker.”

  The man lunged at Jack, his fists pummelling into his face and ribs. “Fuck off,” spat Jack. He spun around delivering a crushing blow to the side of the man’s face. But even as he staggered backwards, he grabbed hold of the rucksack, tugging at it furiously as Jack desperately tried to hold on to the other side.

  “Leave him alone, you mad bastard,” shouted one of the men crowding around the fight.

  “Someone call the police,” shouted a woman.

  All around him, Jack could see people dialling 999 on their phones. He lunged forward for the man, but two of the men from the crowd had already grabbed his shoulders. “Leave it, mate,” snapped one. “The coppers will be here soon enough to sort this out.”

  Jack roared with anger, and using all the formidable strength in his shoulder muscles shrugged both men aside. By the time he had done so however the man had already started running, sprinting down the street in the direction of the tube.

  Jack started to run.

  But it was already too late.

  The man had escaped, taking the rucksack with him.

  And he could already hear the sound of a police car screeching down the street towards him.

  Chapter Nine

  At least they’ve been lucky with the weather decided Alex as he looked up at the clear blue skies over London. Just a shame they’ve given an Irish Republican terror group access-all-areas passes to the Opening Ceremony.

  He’d decided to get the tube up to the Stadium. The brief for the Unit Five men was to mingle with the rest of the crowd. A final pair of eyes and ears, and a last line of defence. Most people lucky enough to have tickets would be getting there by public transport, and it was a fair bet that any terror groups planning an attack would be doing so as well. You didn’t turn up with a bomb or a nerve gas in a chauffer-driven limo: you made yourself as low-key as possible. And that meant the security guys should as well. Your best chance of foiling an attack might well be on the tube. But as Alex sat amongst the excited crowd lucky enough to have tickets for what would certainly be the most spectacular show staged in Britain for a generation he couldn’t see anything that aroused any suspicion. Plenty of families, some young couples, a few tourists. Nobody who looked in the least bit nervous.

  That didn’t mean an attack wasn’t coming, however.

  After what had happened last night Alex felt certain something was afoot.

  Greenway and Harford had gathered the men together in a security room inside the Stadium at four. All nine of them reported for duty promptly. After Jack had been stood down from the Unit, no attempt had been made to replace him. It was too late for that.

  “The alert level has been raised to red,” said Greenway, glancing around at the men gathered round her. “So I know all you men were on the highest possible state of preparedness already. But I want you to take it up a notch higher.”

  “We’ve been monitoring the internet traffic,” said Harford. “Some of the chat rooms known to be used by terror groups to communicate with one another have been full of speculation about the Opening Ceremony this evening. We haven’t been able to identify which group it might be, nor what form the attack might take. And of course before any major event you always get false alarms. But we’re taking this seriously…So seriously that I know the head of MI5 spoke to the Prime Minister this afternoon and the two men seriously discussed postponing the Opening Ceremony until the threat level had been better understood. We, along with the rest of the security services, decided that the situation whilst difficult was manageable. But I’m telling you that so you understand just how grave this situation might be.”

  She paused, looking at each man in turn.

  “The crowd are already finding their seats. So get out there, and if you see anything, anything at all, that raises your suspicions, then act immediately.”

  The men nodded.

  One by one, they filed out of the briefing room. The stadium was vast, and the crowd a huge one, and there was little chance that the men could cover it all. But it was better than nothing. Alex watched as O’Connell headed towards section C. He looked perfectly at ease. Tense, like all the men. But he didn’t look anxious, the way you would expect a conspirator in a terror attack to look moments before he launched his strike.

  Proves nothing, decided Alex.

  Except how well he has been trained.

  Alex slipped back into the room.

  “Yes,” said Greenway, looking up.

  She was still in the briefing room, whispering something to Harford.

  “If the threat is as a serious as you just said it is, then why the hell is O’Connell still on the team.”

  “I’ve already told you, he’s clean.”

  Alex held up his right hand. The cuts had been minor, but there was still a couple of plasters where the glass had dug into his skin. “I was attacked last night. I think O’Connell organised it...because I’m onto him.”

  “For Christ sake, Alex,” said Harford angrily.

  “Listen,” said Greenway, her tone softer. “There’s absolutely no evidence to suggest that O’Connell is involved in TIPRA. And even if he was, there is no evidence to suggest the Republicans are planning an attack. The internet chatter suggests an al-Queda grouping, probably one based here in London.”

  “He’s not meant to know that,” interrupted Harford.

  “I’m just telling him to put his mind at rest.”

  She looked back at Alex.

  “Get up to your section and do the best job you can.”

  Chapter Ten

  Alex took his seat, and looked out across the vast stadium. About half the crowd was already in place even with an hour to go until the Opening Ceremony started. The TV and radio bulletins had been warning about terrible traffic on the way up to the stadium, and heavy security once you got there, so they had left plenty of time for their journey. It wasn’t the sort of show where you would want to miss the start.

  Maybe I can just sit back and enjoy the spectacle, thought Alex.

  Perhaps there is no attack planned after all. Not tonight anyway.

  His phone rang in his pocket. Jack. “Yes,” he said tersely.

  “It’s worse than we thought.”

  “Christ,” muttered Alex quietly.

  “I watched the locker all day. A few minutes ago a man retrieved the items O’Connell left there. I chased him, and got into a fight but the street was too crowded and he managed to get away. I managed to see what was in his rucksack though...”

  Alex glanced anxiously from side to side. He was high up in the stadium. Beside him a family of four were taking their seats, the mum fussing over her little girl’s hair. "What?”

  “A disseminator, a sniper pistol, and a pass....”

  “Jesus!”

  “Do you reckon it means what I reckon it means?”

  Alex cupped his hand over the phone so no one could hear him. “The disseminator will be used to launch a gas attack on the stadium. In the chaos that follows, the sniper pistol will be used to assassinate one of the VIPs. Probably the Prime Minister. Or the Queen...”

  “Or maybe both. Get word out to Greenway.”

  “It’s no use. I’ve already tried. She won’t listen to me.”

  “Then we need to deal with this ourselves,” said Jack. “You start looking for O’Connell. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  “How the hell will you get in?”

  “Let
me worry about that. You find O’Connell.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack folded the mobile back into his pocket, and quickly scanned the street. From the Angel, he’d run down the hill that leads towards King’s Cross station. A couple of the men who’d intervened in the street fight had chased after him, but after fifty yards they’d given up. The fight was over and it didn’t make much difference to them whether he was caught or not. A police car had screeched up the street, and would probably take a few witnesses’ statements. But with the Metropolitan Police on high alert for a terrorist attack on the Olympic Games, and with half the world’s Prime Ministers and Presidents to protect, Jack reckoned that they weren’t going to spend much time on what looked like a mugging in which nothing was actually stolen.

  The stadium, decided Jack.

  That’s where O’Connell’s accomplice must be heading.

  To his right, there was a narrow side street, with a pizza delivery shop. Six motor scooters were parked outside. It was still mid-afternoon, and the guys were checking in for the early evening rush. Jack knelt down and took out the stubby, double-sided knife he’d concealed within his boot. As one man was walking towards his scooter with two pizza boxes in his hand, Jack grabbed him from behind. He thrust the knife hard into the man’s throat. It was close enough to leave a mark, but not so close as to draw blood. “The keys,” he muttered menacingly into the delivery guy’s ear.

  He was just a boy. Eighteen maybe. Moroccan or Algerian judging by his accent and the tone of his skin. Jack knew he was frightening the kid out of his wits and felt bad about it. But if the boy knew what kind of work he was involved in he’d probably forgive him.

  “Here,” muttered the terrified boy.

  It wasn’t his scooter reckoned Jack, and they boy wasn’t about to risk his neck for some jerk of a pizza shop manager who probably paid him minimum wage and stole half his tips. Jack grabbed the keys, and jumped onto the simple bike. As it roared to life, he turned east through Islington and Dalston towards the stadium.

  The traffic slowed to a crawl as he approached the stadium. Big, black Mercedes and Lexus limos driven by chauffeurs sat in long queues at the traffic lights, their air-conditioned interiors a stark contrast to the pound shops that lined the harsh streets outside. Jack steered the scooter nimbly though them, driving up onto the pavement when he had to, shooing aside some angry looking pedestrians with his horn. Less than twenty minutes after setting out, he could see the vast stadium looming in the distance.

  Only one problem remains, he decided.

  Getting inside.

  But he’d already decided how. All he needed was a target.

  A single person. Heading to the Opening Ceremony alone.

  Someone whose ticket he could steal.

  There was a police cordon around the stadium, but with an hour to go before the Games began, and with the crowd surging through the street they weren’t checking any more than a fraction of the cars. The pizza scooter slipped through unnoticed. On the other side of the checks, Jack spotted his target. An English guy, about thirty, dressed in smart casual clothes, standing talking on his mobile close to an alleyway. Jack pulled up the scooter behind him, walking towards him as casually as possible, then in a single swift movement, locked his arm around his throat, and dragged him quickly into the alley. He glanced left and right to check that no one had spotted him, then punched the man in the back of the neck. It was a Seal trick for rendering a man unconscious, and although it hadn’t worked an hour earlier in the street fight with O’Connell’s accomplice, this man was a typical office worker, not a well-trained terrorist. He was soft and flabby, and the punch put him straight out like a baby.

  Jack dropped behind a big pile of green bins, and started to rifle through his pockets. Phone, wallet, sun glasses. Then he found it. A small strip of embossed paper.

  Jack glanced down and checked the ticket.

  Zone H. Admit One.

  He smiled softly to himself, and started walking toward the entrance marked H.

  All I need to do now is find O’Connell.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alex was moving swiftly through the crowd. There was less than an hour to go before the Opening Ceremony began, and the sense of anticipation was rising with each moment that passed. The precise details of the show the film director Danny Boyle had prepared had been kept secret, but everyone knew that the ceremony had cost millions to stage, and was certain to be spectacular.

  But Alex wasn’t interested in that right now.

  He just wanted to find O’Connell.

  “What the fuck….”

  Alex stumbled forward. He’d just bumped into a fat –looking guy in a Chelsea shirt holding two huge soft drinks and a hot dog. The drink had spilled out over the slimy sausage and was now dripping across the floor.

  “Sorry mate.”

  “You’ll be fucking sorry.”

  Alex paused, and advanced towards him menacingly. “I said I was sorry, alright…”

  “You should fucking pay for that…”

  But by the time the sentence was delivered, Alex had already disappeared. He darted through Section D, skipping down right to the front-row seats where the VIPs were seated. Briefly one of the uniformed security guards tried to block his path but Alex simply flashed him has access-all-areas pass. He looked around furiously, but there was no sign of O’Connell. He ran faster, leaping up the stairs, then across into Section E.

  Behind him, he could hear the music starting.

  The crowd fell silent.

  80,000 people were holding their breath as the Olympic Flame made its first appearance in the London Stadium.

  But Alex ignored them, moving onto Section F.

  But still nothing.

  He paused, taking a moment to recover his breath.

  Where would I launch an attack from, he wondered to himself. His eyes scanned through the stadium, trying to figure out the angles. O’Connell and his accomplice would have planned this for months, and would have decided the precise points of vulnerability.

  Where? For fuck’s sake where?

  Of course.

  The gas should come from the foot of the stadium, he decided. A disseminator would release a nerve gas into the arena with lethal efficiency, but if there was a natural flow of air to help spread it through the atmosphere as quickly as possible then it would cause maximum damage. To do that, you would release it as close to the track as possible.

  But the sniper attack would come from the middle of the stadium.

  You’d need height. It is far easier to put a bullet into someone from above than below. You have gravity on your side. And you want to be as close as possible, whilst still having a clear line of trajectory to your target –one that allowed you to hit them in the head, the only place you could be sure of assassinating them with a single bullet.

  He scanned the stadium again.

  The British Prime Minister and the Queen were sitting together in the centre of Zone M. To get the right shot, you’d want to be at a ninety degree angle.

  That meant your ideal spot would be in the centre of Zone F or J, on one side, or Zone Q or R on the other side. He smiled briefly to himself. That evens things up a bit.

  The radio in his ear was bleeping.

  “Harford here, Harford here. All Unit Five men check in.”

  “What is it?”

  “We have a lead that an al-Queda suicide unit has been spotted in Zone J. All men move to Zone J. I repeat, all men move to Zone J.”

  “Who spotted them?”

  “O’Connell.”

  “Christ it’s a ruse,” snapped Alex. “He setting up a….”

  “Bloody leave it out, Marden. No move your arse to Zone J or you’ll be facing a full court martial in the morning. And if it is anything to do with me you’ll be executed on the spot.”

  “But…”

  “Just move….”

  Alex tore the ear piece out and threw it on the floor.
<
br />   The perimeter, he decided. That’s where the gas will be released. Thinking back to the briefing model, he realised there was a series of service tunnels through which the athletes could enter the stadium.

  Inside his pocket, the mobile was ringing. “Jack here. I’m in the building.”

  “The perimeter service tunnels,” answered Alex. “We search there first.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The noise was deafening as you got up close to the running track. The Opening Ceremony was in full-swing now, with lights flashing, music playing, and hundreds of bodies moving into position.

  To Alex however it was all just a blur of background noise.

  He was focussed only on finding O’Connell.

  He’d told Jack he’d meet him at the foot of Zone G. He rushed towards it. They were ten minutes into the Ceremony, and he reckoned the attack could be launched at any second. A terror group would allow a few minutes for the global television audience to reach its peak, but they wouldn’t wait too long. That would only increase the chances of discovery.

  “What took you?” shouted Alex as he spotted Jack.

  “Thought I might enjoy the show for a bit,” said Jack with a rough grin.

  “We’ll watch the highlights on TV later. We’ve only a few minutes to go.”

  Alex’s pass took them into the service tunnels. Many of them were crowded with extras being used for the Ceremony: a mass of excited bodies waiting for their brief moment in the global limelight. Alex and Jack moved swiftly, elbowing people out of the way when they had to, ignoring the angry shouts behind them.

  A couple of times security guards tried to stop them, but the access all areas pass got them through.